Handwriting On The Wall
by wreckofherheart
Summary: A wounded soldier and a young civilian meet in a hospital. They call it Fate. [Peggy/Angie]
1. these scars are just a trace

**I.**

* * *

From the top step, she can smell nicotine. The stench reminds her of her father's home: small, stuffy and dark. She expects to see him round the corner, point at her, and yell out. Call her horrible names, raise his fist and whack her across the face. Daddy is never nice when he comes back home drunk. He'll always hit her with a cigarette between his fingers, and his breath always smells so heavily of whiskey. Whenever Daddy is home, she has learnt to run away, to hide beneath the bed, or in the wardrobe, or beneath the floorboards.

Daddy isn't here, though. He didn't come to the hospital with her. They found his corpse in a back alley; he had choked on his own vomit. The police officer was sympathetic when he informed her about his death, but she felt nothing. Is she supposed to feel something for a man who raised her and hated her? Is she supposed to weep about a man who stubbed out his cigarettes on her body, and yet still claimed to love her dearly? Call her his "little, baby girl" when the nights were rough. Hold her close and whisper into her ear that he doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean to be such a _bastard_ , but he can't help himself.

She goes down the stairs and stops when she sees a woman on the stairwell. She's the one smoking a cigarette and at first, she mistakes her for an angel. She doesn't think she's witnessed such a beautiful person in her life. This woman is older than her, and clearly a soldier. It's not the uniform which reveals her career: cargo combat trousers, black boots, and a clean, white shirt, unbuttoned slightly. She can see her bandaged shoulder. What gives this woman away is her posture, the way she stands. That confidence is unmistakably due to basic army training. It's as if there's a rod shoved up her spine. Despite her wounded body, she still manages to appear divine. She wears dark, red lipstick, deep mascara and has the most expressive eyes.

The older woman is unnerved by her sudden appearance. She inhales deeply on her cigarette, allowing the drug to spread through her lungs. Smoke escapes her parted lips slowly, and she watches the other woman on the steps. Her look is unintelligible, and it's almost frightening how somebody can appear so dignified.

Angie watches the soldier, hand on the bannister.

She turns away.

'Don't go.' The woman has a deep, warm voice. She's British. 'It'll be nice to have some company.'

Angie doesn't know how to feel about a stranger wanting her company, but she obeys the soldier's command. She swivels around on her heel, and sits down on the step, hugging her knees. There's something about this other woman which comforts her, almost. She might seem frightening in a way, but Angie knows she won't hurt her. And it's good to be around somebody who doesn't mean her harm. Angie eyes the cigarette in the woman's possession, and the soldier catches on. She retrieves a packet of cigarettes from her pocket.

'Here.'

'Thank you,' Angie gratefully takes one, and blushes slightly when she realises she does not own a lighter. 'Uh––' The soldier is one step ahead of her though. When she pulls out a lighter, Angie props the cigarette between her lips and leans in so the soldier can light it. The nicotine feels heavenly, swirling in her chest, burning down her throat. She's silent a moment longer, and the soldier stares idly at the wall, relaxed. 'What happened to ya?'

The solider looks at her.

'I––I mean...' Angie points at the soldier's wounded shoulder. 'Looks like ya had a nasty blow, is all. I don't think I've ever seen a soldier before. Not like this, anyway.'

'I've returned from the frontline,' she says, voice blunt.

'Oh.' Angie raises her brows. 'Does it hurt?'

The soldier smiles a little. 'No. Not anymore.' She sighs. 'I only need a day's rest, then I'll be right as rain.'

'You're not stayin'?'

'Here? Goodness no. Two bullet wounds aren't going to stop me.'

'Two?' Angie gasps. 'Jesus Christ, you're a tough gal.'

Either the soldier is amused by Angie or flattered, because she's smiling again. Angie cocks her head to the side. Her smile is lovely, it brightens her face, and her smile makes her appear less scary. But her smile is sad too. She's hiding something.

'Peggy.'

'Angie. It's sure nice to meet you.'

'And you.'

Their conversation is interrupted when they hear somebody singing a few stairs down. He's making his way up the staircase, and sings louder with each step he climbs. Angie only knows this man is a soldier due to his bandaged forehead. He leans on a crutch, and grins to himself, like a mad man. His singing comes to an abrupt stop when he sees the two women.

Angie expects the worst, but what escapes his mouth surprises her.

'Well, well, well––never thought I'd see the Lieutenant here! You were the one who fought beside good old Captain America, am I right?'

Peggy doesn't bat an eye at his name. Angie cannot believe she didn't recognise her! Of course. This is Margaret Carter. One of the most highly esteemed soldiers in the American army. She was Captain Rogers' partner. Right? Those two were a team, until the poor Captain went missing, supposedly dead.

Feeling foolish, Angie lowers her cigarette and looks away.

Unfortunately the soldier has turned his attention to the young lady, and smiles. 'I'm in luck tonight! I get to see two pretty ladies before I'm sent home tomorrow. Haha. Can you believe it? I go home tomorrow while my brothers continue fighting. It's a goddamn _joke_.' He groans, and leans back against the wall. 'Phew. I tell you, walking up a staircase is harder than you'd think when your head is blasted through.'

Peggy takes a puff of her cigarette. 'You look rough.'

The other soldier smirks. 'So do you, ma'am.'

Angie watches the two of them. There's a silent understanding between both man and woman. They've fought a war, and their war will rage on for the rest of their lives. It's a bond only soldiers seem to share, Angie has noticed. This deep level of respect. She's almost envious, but, for the most part, she is quiet and simply observes.

The cigarette packet is thrown in the man's direction, and he catches it.

'Keep them,' Peggy says.

He beams at her. 'Thank you! Thank you. You haven't got a lighter, have you?' Peggy passes it over. The soldier hungrily pulls out a cigarette and lights it, before taking a long inhale. He sighs happily and falls back into the wall again. 'Aw, yeah, that's the stuff. I haven't tasted one of these babies in weeks now. The doctor doesn't like it when I smoke around him. Grumpy piece of shit.' Angie is relatively surprised by the man's cursing. The male soldier looks at her. 'What d'you think, ma'am? She's a pretty one, right?'

Now aware she is in the spotlight, Angie avoids his and Peggy's gaze. Her cheeks redden and she's aware of Peggy watching her, but the other woman says nothing.

'I wouldn't mind coming home to a pretty girl like you, darling.'

What's startling is how _empty_ his voice is. There is nothing sexual in his words–– _he's just sad_. Because any man would love to come home to a pretty girl like Angie, who looks so delicate and pure. Any man would be lucky to come home to a pretty girl like Angie. That's what Daddy always said. Pretty, pretty, sweet girl. Your husband will be one lucky man.

'Look at her,' he exhales. He chuckles. 'I think I've made her feel awkward. I don't blame you, sweetheart. I'm an ugly soldier––no girl wants me now.' He turns to Peggy. 'No girls want us now that we're back from the war. We're just hideous forms of what we used to be. We're not the men in the fancy photographs anymore. Just disgusting and mad.' He chortles. 'Aren't I right, ma'am?'

Angie catches Peggy's gaze. Peggy's eyes are dark, dangerous and warm. Angie feels a shudder as they watch one another. Peggy isn't observing her because of her looks; she isn't stealing this opportunity to take as much as she can from something––someone––who will never be hers. She's looking at Angie because Angie is all she is aware of. The soldier's words are muffled in her ears––Peggy doesn't care about what he has to say.

This soldier has been through Hell. She has faced Satan and his devils herself. Nothing scares her anymore. She has lived these past few years untouched, unloved––having to work alone in a man's world of blood and guns. The bullet wounds are mere grazes compared to the injuries Peggy carries around with her every day and night. The injuries nobody recognises: the scars dug deep in her mind, haunting her.

And, although she has not fought this monstrous war herself, Angie, too, has own her nightmares. The wounds her father inflicted upon her are hidden beneath her gown. As a performer, Angie can mask her emotions well; she can cover up the fact that she lives in fear all day long. He may be dead, but there are more of him out there. Neither women are entirely certain about what love is, and, yet, opposite one another, they find a deep, intimate level of understanding no two people can discover easily.

They have known each other for less than fifteen minutes and, already, Angie feels as if she's known this soldier her entire life.

How pathetic.

'Do you believe in God, darling?' The male soldier queries Angie.

Angie is startled by his question. 'I––I dunno.'

'I think He exists. Of course He does.' The man grins. 'I think God plans everything. I think He planned me to get blown up and end up here, so I can meet you two lovely ladies.' He leans over to Angie, placing his arms on the bannister. 'Y'know what? Who's to say He didn't plan you two to meet either? Think about it. You, a nice sweet girl from nowhere, and Lieutenant Carter, who got shot––you wanna tell me this is not fate?'

'And what would you say to all the innocent men and women who have died?' Peggy asks. 'Did God intend for them to die?' There's a hint of bitterness in her tone. This is a woman who once had faith, only for it to be crushed the moment she joined the army. There is no God in this dark, cruel world.

'It was their time,' the man replies. 'But, I guess it depends if you believe in a merciful God or not. Ours ain't merciful, Lieutenant, but I like to think He's fair.'

Peggy snorts, and puffs on her cigarette. 'Then we _clearly_ have different ideas on what is fair.'

'God is all I've got now. He's all you've got too.'

Peggy shakes her head lightly. 'I thought He was on my side once. A long time ago.' She eyes him quietly for a second, and offers a smile. 'Until I realised I was the one leading men through trenches, giving orders and sending them all to their deaths.' Angie softens her expression. The male soldier chuckles. Peggy continues. 'If there is a God, then it'll take Him some time to get back in my good graces.'

'Are you not a forgiving woman?'

'Usually I am.' She looks at Angie. 'But, I don't know what He has planned next for me.'

'Have a little hope. You might be surprised.' It is Angie who says this, catching both soldiers by surprise. Compared to them, she has a little voice, but her voice is happy, clinging onto whatever good is left in this world. It's what both soldiers will remember of her: that joy. It leaves the man smiling. 'He is always there when you need Him most.' She dares herself to look Peggy in the eye, and challenge her. 'I think He saved your life. I'm thankful those bullets hit you in the shoulder, not where it could've killed ya.'

Peggy doesn't respond. The cigarette in her possession is ignored, and she processes everything Angie has told her. Maybe it is true. Maybe this is all an act of fate; an act of God. Who knows? Peggy sure as Hell doesn't. Really, right now, she doesn't know _what_ to believe anymore. She has lost so many loved ones, watched so many men, women and children die––to believe in anything is close to impossible.

Is this her reward? God's gift?

To meet this woman and have her faith returned to her?

The male soldier winces as he straightens. 'I gotta get back. Doctor will start wondering where I've gone to, and he doesn't like me anyway.' He grabs his crutch, and peers at the two women over his shoulder. 'Good night.' Neither say a word, and Peggy watches him descend the stairs, humming on his way, until he's out of sight.

She stubs out her cigarette. 'I apologise. I hope he didn't make you feel uncomfortable.'

'Not at all, hon,' Angie replies. She smiles. 'Actually... he kinda made me feel like it was only you and me left in the world. On our own. I liked that feeling.' She sighs, almost dreamily. Peggy is silent. 'I guess you gotta get back to the war again, huh?'

'The war is everywhere, but, yes, I have to.'

'Oh, well. I would've liked to have got to know you a bit more.'

Peggy hesitates. When was the last time someone wanted to _know_ her? Not since Steve, at least. How many times has she let these opportunities pass her? Here is a sweet, lovely lady who wants to _know_ her. And maybe it is fate, maybe it is all part of some big plan, but something in her changes. She might have endured horrifying moments during the war, but she can make some good out of it all.

She was sent to this hospital for a reason. She met Angie for a reason.

'Do you live near here?'

'Kinda.' Angie jumps to her feet when she realises what Peggy is asking. The excitement is endearing, and Peggy is touched that she cares this much. 'I work at L&L Automat a few blocks from here.'

Peggy nods. 'I know that place. I'll come and see you.'

'You're sweet.'

'Nonsense. It'd be my pleasure.'

Angie holds her gaze. She clutches onto the bannister, and feels a need to make Peggy stay, if not for a few more minutes. Peggy may promise to see her, but if she intends to return to the frontline, will she survive? Is Angie just filling herself up with false hope? Will Peggy even remember her when the war is over?

She's never really met a soldier before.

And she likes this one. A lot.

She stubs out her cigarette.

'I'll miss ya, Peggy.'

'You shouldn't.'

'Well, I will. Maybe then you'll think 'bout me when you go back out there.'

Peggy laughs meekly. 'I won't forget you. I promise. I'll come back and see you.'

Here they are: a waitress and a soldier, and nothing is stopping them from dropping everything and running away. The idea, the fantasy is suddenly tempting; luxurious and just so _tempting_. But, perhaps, that is not a part of their great plan. Perhaps, now isn't the time––perhaps now isn't _their_ time.

Angie enjoys their silence, and watches Peggy softly. She has a few grazes across her beautiful face, and her exhaustion is evident, but, really, Peggy's imperfections only make her appear that much more sweeter.

She smiles at her. A full, genuine smile and turns to walk back up the stairs. Peggy waits, hearing her footsteps fade, until she's gone completely. The soldier doesn't move; she waits another minute, just in case Angie may return; just in case something more needs to be said. When the minute passes, Peggy opens the door and leaves the stairwell.


	2. the sweetest sadness in your eyes

**II.**

* * *

At this hour, the Automat is almost empty. The miserable linger, leave at midnight, and then the doors are closed until dawn. It's winter, and it is beginning to snow. Light, delicate flakes fall from the dark sky, sticking to the ground. One of Angie's colleagues mutters something under her breath. She's worried her car won't start––she has a long drive back home. Her thoughts are disturbed when a customer knocks the rim of his mug against the table, and asks for another coffee.

It's odd that a fortnight ago, the end of the war was announced. Men, women and children danced in the streets, drinking champagne, lemonade, chanting the chorus of America. Sometimes, it's very easy to forget that wars don't end so abruptly. They last decades, a millennia. Too many soldiers have entered the Automat, stumbling on damaged feet, pale in the face, _lifeless_. It is _easy_ to forget about the soldiers who fought. Everybody is so wrapped up in the fantasy of soldiers being heroes that they forget said heroes are, in fact, _human_.

And a hero's worst enemy is themselves.

One friend's uncle had committed suicide. Another's son has turned into a hermit, refusing to leave his apartment, dying in his own stink. The latest was somebody Angie knew personally. A nice guy, he had a cute smile, and he always seemed so happy about everything. It was an all an act, she realised, when they found his body three days ago. He had shot a bullet through his skull, and the blood flashes in her mind every time she closes her eyes.

The war isn't over. Not really.

Leaning across the counter, Angie idly watches the entrance of the diner. The snow is quickening, and it's the first time in a while she's felt excited. She _loves_ snow. She loves snowball fights, making snow angels, and snowmen. If she didn't have such a late shift, she would already be out there. A long exhale escapes her parted lips. No more customers are arriving. For a while, she hoped the nice soldier she met on the stairwell might show up. Like she promised.

When her shift comes to an end, she unties her apron and pretends she isn't disappointed. The nice soldier will appear tomorrow, perhaps. Or maybe next week? One day, surely, she'll appear. Unless the nice soldier is dead.

A corpse amongst many, forgotten.

* * *

She's given a promotion. _Another_ promotion.

'How does _Colonel_ sound?'

It sounds false. A desperate attempt to keep her stable, whatever "stable" is. A desperate attempt to make things _normal_ again. They promote her urgently––soldiers are collapsing left and right. Her intellect, magnificence, what makes her so great, is becoming an extinct quality. Soldiers of her breed are rare to come by now.

She doesn't want to be known as Colonel. That is too much responsibility; _and she has had it with responsibility_. She is not the same woman who joined the army all those years ago, at nineteen; she lied about her age and she wonders if that was honestly a mistake. Her entire life has been about the army, the war; she has been a devoted soldier, and now that it's all over, well–– _what does that mean?_ All of that work, all of those orders, all of those poor, poor men.

Hands under the table, she lowers her gaze from her commanding officer. He's watching her fondly, and he expects her to be happy about this promotion. All soldiers love promotions. Don't they?

She whispers three words, leaking with shame and guilt.

'What did you say?' He asks.

Peggy hesitates, clenches and unclenches her fist. She clears her throat.

'I said "God help me", sir.'

* * *

Days pass.

More days.

The snow melts. The air freezes. And life is just a little bit greyer.

Peggy sees her through the window, serving a customer. She can turn away if she likes. She made a promise a very long time ago, but surely it is fine for her to break that promise. Heck, she has been forced to break many promises lately. _Colonel just doesn't suit her._ She watches the Automat sign light up, on and off. The amount of times she's passed this diner and never noticed it.

Only a second. She only requires a second.

Peggy turns on her heel to leave, but she stops when she realises Angie has seen her. She is a young, little thing. Peggy is grateful she never faced the war head on––not Angie. They're frozen in place. Angie waits; she waits for Peggy to turn away and change her mind. Maybe this shouldn't be so. Maybe Peggy can't handle friendship right now, or anything of the sort. Maybe she can't handle _anything_. Attachment is suddenly terrifying.

And yet, she opens the door to the diner and steps inside. It's considerably warmer. She can smell coffee mixed with something sweet. One customer recognises her uniform, and minds his own business. Peggy unbuttons her jacket and proceeds to the front, draping her jacket over the back of a chair and sitting down. She studies the drinks menu attached to the wall. Nothing particularly interests her.

'Can I get ya anythin'?' Angie asks, moving over towards her.

'Just a tea, please, with milk.'

Angie lingers momentarily, frowning slightly at the other woman's cool behaviour. She slides a mug in Peggy's direction and pours her drink. She tries to tease her. 'Thought you'd forgotten about me.'

It works. Sort of. Peggy's smile is only half sincere. 'I haven't been able to get away, unfortunately.' She doesn't drink the tea.

'How's the shoulder?'

'Stiff. It aches when the temperature is cold, especially when it's rainy.'

'That's pretty common, right? I heard stories about soldiers from the war––got wounds like you. Is it true they sometimes don't take the bullet out?'

'Sometimes, yes. It's infection you have to be cautious about.'

Peggy isn't looking at her. She's not necessarily looking at anything. It's as if the soldier Angie met months ago has disappeared. What's before her is instead a shell of what Peggy was, and it saddens her. She wants to know what Peggy was like before the war; she wants to see that smile again. How many more unhappy soldiers are there? And why them?

Why do _they_ suffer?

'You a'right, hon?' It's a stupid question, but Angie doesn't know what else to say. Peggy is _not_ all right. She's sick. She's not well. She's miserable. She's still recovering, and it may be that she'll never recover completely. She's attended too many funerals, held too many dying people in her arms, watched too many of her friends collapse beside her, bullets shot through their skin.

Peggy doesn't lie. 'Yes, of course.' Unless the situation requires her to.

Angie glances at her fellow colleague who's busy dealing with a customer. She leans over to Peggy. 'Ya can talk to me, English. I know I'm just a gal in an apron, but I can still bend an ear for ya.'

'No, honestly: I'm fine.'

Angie scrunches her nose, unconvinced. 'You coulda fooled me.'

Peggy finally looks her in the eye, and it's then Angie is reassured that there are some pieces of Peggy left. She's still the same woman she met on the stairwell. Still the same soldier who had lost her faith in God. Peggy is the same, except this time, she simply lacks a _purpose_. On the stairwell, she was certain to return to the frontline. Fighting was her purpose, her reason to keep on breathing.

But now?

Wounded soldiers are thrown out like dogs. Soldiers are poor, some living on the streets, and it's a mess. The whole thing is a goddamn _mess_. It's impossible to go back to who they were before. They've seen too much, weeped over so many dead soldiers––stuck at home, resting on an armchair (if lucky), with only one leg to stand on, what's the point?

'I got a promotion.'

Angie holds back from congratulating her. Wisely.

'I couldn't accept.' Peggy's hand slips from her mug. She then chuckles. Humourless. 'But, alas, I had no choice. Either I am promoted as Colonel, or I walk away.' She pauses. 'Anyway. Enough about me, please. How have you been?'

Not many customers ask Angie about her health. She's mildly startled at the question. 'Oh! Me? I'm okay. I've, uh, just moved into a new apartment actually.'

'Have you unpacked?'

'Yeah. Not much to unpack.' Leaving her father's home was probably one of the most exhilarating feelings she's ever endured. But she doesn't discuss her father, and she's unwilling to share the details with Peggy who has enough on her plate. 'You should come round and check it out.'

Peggy nods. 'I may do, in the near future.'

'Yeah, right. I know better than to trust you on that.' Angie glances at the clock. 'My shift finishes in thirty minutes. I'll take you back with me.'

If this was an invitation from anybody else, Peggy would have declined immediately. She's familiar with these invites and what they involve.

This isn't the war anymore, though. This is a sweet waitress she knows little about. They may never know each other properly, as friends or lovers should. Peggy thinks about the soldier on the stairwell, with his bandaged head, droopy eyes, and empty presence. His story: a soldier and civilian meeting in a hospital.

Fate does not promise much. It's all grim and bad.

Except this time.

This time, there's a little light in this bleak life.

Company would be nice for a change. Company that is not associated with work. Angie smiles at her, and attends to another customer. Peggy looks at the clock, and then at her tea. It's getting cold. She won't drink it. Eating and drinking have become a chore, and it's not necessarily this sort of substance that she needs. Peggy watches Angie from where she sits. She has a delicate frame, smooth, gentle hands and she carries a sort of childish manner.

She's pretty. Anybody with sight can figure that out.

But what leans Peggy towards her is beyond her pretty face. The little optimism Angie possesses is something Peggy is desperate to possess once again herself. It'd be nice to smile again, and actually _smile_. To stop drowning in a spiral of hollow darkness, with nothing to catch her fall. If she doesn't find something––someone––to hold onto, her spine will snap.

Peggy waits until thirty minutes has gone, and follows Angie out of the diner and into the cold night.

* * *

'You're quite sure you're happy for me to stay here?'

' _Yes_! Jesus, Peggy, do I have to tell you again?' There's laughter in her voice, and it's a pleasant tune to Peggy's ears. Laughter. She hasn't heard laughter in weeks. 'I want you to stay here.' They catch each other's gaze and share a smile. Angie points towards a cupboard. 'You'll find a little something in there––help yourself. I won't be a sec.'

Angie disappears into another room. Peggy strips off her jacket and studies the apartment. It's warmer in here than the diner. There are a few fading, black and white photographs on her mantlepiece, possibly of family members and friends––it's hard to tell. Several novels are stacked beside her bed, and Peggy notices a few play scripts on her desk and on the floor, possibly forgotten, possibly thrown aside in fury. One of the scripts has a huge cross marked over the front page.

Opening the cupboard, Peggy feels a smile pull at her lips when she discovers a bottle of alcohol, and two empty glasses. Due to her own self discipline, Peggy has avoided alcohol at all costs, no matter how tempting it has been to taste some. However, Angie did offer, and Peggy had a hunch she wouldn't be so pleased if Peggy refused. She takes the glasses and the bottle.

'Never took you for the rebellious type,' Peggy calls out.

Angie returns, grinning ear-to-ear. 'Then you'd better brace yourself, hon: I'm full of surprises.'

'Mm-Hm.' Peggy sips her drink. Immediately her body reacts, and she feels her muscles loosen beneath her shirt. The heaviness in her head starts to weaken, and it's easier to breathe. A little more at ease, Peggy sits down on the nearest chair while Angie picks up the neglected script on the floor. 'I didn't know you were a performer,' Peggy says.

'What?' Angie asks absently. She looks at the script. 'Oh, right! Well––yeah, I sort've am.'

'Sort of? What does that mean?'

'It means _sort of_.' Angie places the script onto her desk. 'I didn't get the part.'

'I'm sorry,' Peggy softens her expression. 'Maybe next time?'

'Yeah. Maybe.' Angie brightens up when she spots the glass of alcohol in Peggy's hand. 'That stuff is over ten years old––Daddy gave it to me before––' She stops, pauses, and then quickly says, '––Nah, it was his favourite.' She takes her glass which Peggy has poured out for her.

Peggy frowns. 'What was your father like?'

'I don't wanna talk about that, Peg.' The sudden crispness in her tone shuts Peggy up. Silence flutters between them for a moment. A warm, lingering silence. Angie kneels beside her, resting against the chair's arm. 'D'you have a family?'

'More or less. In England. I have a sister, but my parents passed away when I was very small. So I was raised by my aunt before I came here.'

'Will you go back to England? I've always wanted to go!'

Peggy snorts at her enthusiasm. 'If I ever intend to return, you're more than welcome to accompany me.'

'That sounds nice.'

'It does sound nice,' Peggy agrees.

Angie sighs and rises to her feet. 'I'm gonna make a warm drink. D'you want one?'

'No. Thank you.'

'A'right. Well, if you change your mind...' Angie disappears into the other room again.

Peggy falls back into her chair, and finishes most of her alcohol. She hears Angie switch on the radio, and light jazz quietly emits into the room. Peggy taps her finger against her glass, and goes over the conversation she had with her commanding officer before. Colonel. _That sounds good, doesn't it? Colonel Carter._ Peggy winces. It doesn't sound good at all and surely she, of all people, does not deserve a promotion. What about the poor souls who lost their lives, or those that cannot walk?

What about the missing, like James Barnes and Steve Rogers?

Do they deserve promotions?

Or is there any point in rewarding the dead?

She starts to wonder what Steve would think about her promotion. Of course he'd be proud. _Of course_. He was always overjoyed whenever his best girl received recognition––' _like you deserve_ ,' he'd say, rosy cheeked and beaming. He'd want her to feel happy about her promotion.

That's what _he'd_ want.

A sharp stab of pain is felt across the back of her shoulder. Peggy inhales sharply and sits upright, lowering her glass. The pain travels down her spine, and over her right arm––the pain is so overwhelming it actually makes it hard for her to breathe. It's as if a red, hot iron has been pressed to her shoulder and there isn't any way in which she can shake it off.

'Shoulder causing you problems again?' Angie asks, reappearing with a mug in her hand.

'Yes, I'll be fine, though. Just––' Peggy groans, '––It'll pass.'

Angie places her mug down and walks over. She stops at the back of Peggy's chair, and gently presses a hand just above Peggy's bullet wounds. Peggy stiffens at her touch. 'I think you're too tense.' Angie pushes her thumb into her shoulder blade, smoothing it across. Her other hand joins. 'You need to give yourself a break, hon, otherwise you'll hurt yourself.'

'Bit too late for that,' Peggy exhales slowly. 'That feels really good actually.'

For the next couple of minutes, Angie massages Peggy shoulder and upper back. Miraculously, the pain fades, and, somehow, all of Peggy's worries aren't important anymore. The promotion, the deceased soldiers, whatever happens next––it doesn't matter. It's not important. _It's all going to be okay in the end_. Peggy sighs.

'Mm, thank you, doctor.'

She leans back into her, relaxed and content. Yes. She feels _much_ better.

Angie's hands move away from Peggy's shoulder, and she reaches over to take the glass out of Peggy's hand. Peggy says nothing, and watches Angie appear in her line of vision again. She pushes the glass onto the table, and focusses her attention on Peggy. There's something softer in her expression: she's nervous, a little uncertain, but her softness is mainly directed at the soldier seated in her chair.

The stairwell comes to mind again. The scent of nicotine. Angie remembers mistaking Peggy for an angel.

It causes her to smile slightly, lean forwards and kiss Peggy's lips.

She hovers a mere inch from her for a second. Her breath tickles her nose, and her heart jumps when she kisses her again––pushing her body up against hers. Their kiss gradually deepens, they grow more accustomed to one another, a little more certain. Angie's eagerness, her youth––whatever it is––gets the better of her, and she straddles Peggy's lap, hands already unbuttoning her shirt.

A cool shiver travels up her spine as she feels Peggy's palms on her thighs, slipping beneath her skirt, smoothing her hands across her flesh. Her fingers tickle. Their kiss ends abruptly. Colour reaches Peggy's cheeks, and she moves in to kiss Angie's neck, and her collarbone. Angie lets out a small moan, shuddering.

 _She_ feels really good.

They touch and kiss and gasp; finding each other in the little light they share, rocking into each other, unfolding.

Peggy stays.

* * *

Sunlight floods in through the window, and Angie awakes startlingly. She turns her head, half dazed, and watches Peggy finish getting dressed. She's done buttoning her shirt, and zips up the back of her dress. It's at that point she realises Angie's eyes are on her. Angie raises a brow at her, sitting upright, draping the sheets over her shoulders and naked body as Peggy pulls on her boots.

'Thinkin' of sneaking out on me, huh?'

'Believe me, if I wanted to escape unnoticed, I would have left by now.' She ties her shoelaces and approaches Angie on the bed. She fiddles with her cuff, and smiles, sympathetically, sorry, _regrettably._ 'I have to go.' There is a never a purely happy smile from Peggy.

There's always another emotion muddled in.

It's what makes Peggy such a riddle.

'You'll come back?'

'Of course.' Angie squints at her, suspicious. Peggy kisses her cheek. 'I promise.'

'Hm.' Angie grabs Peggy by her collar and kisses her mouth. 'I'll hold you to that.'

'Do.'

Peggy flings her jacket over her shoulder and turns to look at Angie.

She expects the ghosts of her friends to call her stupid. Stupid Peggy. Mad Margaret. Leaving a girl like this. Angie is patient, allowing Peggy to go, disappear from her life altogether if she so wishes. She allows her to lie, if her promise is a lie.

The sunlight caresses her bare shoulder, warm and soft to touch. Her unruly hair, sleepy eyes, dazed expression––all of these wonderful traits about her that make Angie appear so innocent and, yet, fetching all the same. Peggy is charmed; she feels her cheeks redden. Not out of embarrassment, or the very fact she did indeed sleep with this lovely woman.

It's a different feeling.

A feeling which consumes her entirety, makes her palms clammy, makes her absence hurt.

This feeling is love.

'How long are you in New York for?' Angie asks.

'I'm not sure,' Peggy replies honestly. 'A few weeks, at least.'

'Oh.' Angie shrugs, unconcerned. She expects as much. 'If you are around, then you'll know where to find me.'

Peggy inhales deeply, nods, and smiles. 'Thank you.' And it's a thanks for many things; too many things for her to voice. Peggy opens the door, and leaves, closing it behind her. Angie tightens the sheets around herself, and listens to Peggy's footsteps through the wall, down the hallway.

She listens to the sound of what could have been, what should have been.

An almost lover.

* * *

end.


End file.
